


The Price of Loyalty

by Kicker



Series: Red Flags and Flight Suits [3]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Epic spoilers, Gen, POV Deacon, POV First Person, Smoking, Spoilers, Swearing, pre-friendship Deacon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-18 20:37:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5942359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicker/pseuds/Kicker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with claiming you see and hear everything is that it's never true. There's always more to learn. Not all of is that great to hear.</p><p>Still. Never was anything great achieved without danger, and there's plenty of that around at the moment. We're all just riding the wave of destruction.</p><p>This is the story of how a career liar met his greatest enemy. Or maybe his greatest ally. Only time will tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two

**Author's Note:**

> Guide to the series:  
> 1\. [The Smut](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5730103)  
> 2\. [The Angst](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5834608)  
> 3\. [The Liar](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5942359) (this one)  
> 4\. [The Dame](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6052120)

She walked into town. A man died.

In terms of inauspicious entrances, that's some way beyond hoarse ravens. It's also not that rare an occurrence, for her. Name a town or village in the Commonwealth. She's probably seen a corpse in it by now. Pretty likely to have been responsible for it, too.

The gates opened and she stepped in, alone. Any eyes that did pass over her were mostly disinterested. Just another smoothskin, showing up in the back streets. Those eyes probably didn't look long enough to see the bloodstains on her jeans. The bruising on her face. Most of them had no way to see or know about the dripping bag of brains in her pack. She was just another drifter, face upturned and glowing under the neons. Either nothing to write home about, or ripe for the picking.

Pay no mind to me, by the way. I'm just another smoothskin myself. Anonymous drifter. Down on my luck, screwed up by chems, owe money to the wrong people, etc etc, insert generic origin story here. Goodneighbor's an attractive place for people like me. Dark. Seedy. And full of people who know things. If you're in the right place at the right time, you might just catch them sharing. Or you might just see things happen, first hand. City life, man. Thrill a minute.

Well. Sometimes it's awkwardly like watching a wildlife documentary.

Back on that fateful day, we all got a glimpse of the mating display of the common ghoul. Well. An uncommon ghoul. Unique, you might say. Anyway, this particular specimen noticed the newcomer and started to preen; polishing his buttons, setting his hat to just the right angle. Gotta maximize the rakishness. Very important, when you're a hat-wearer.

She hadn't noticed him yet. Was still gawping at the scenery. So now an attention-grabbing display of dominance. Stabby stabby. Well done, Hancock. You sure showed that poor bastard.

She barely blinked. Just used to that kind of thing, I guess. Few months in the Commonwealth will do that to a person.

Point made, he started to play it cool. But he was watching. Learning her habits; sort of like a gentleman antelope learning when the lady antelope likes to go down to the watering hole. Makes sure he's there at the right time looking all... antelope-y.

I'm not saying either of them look like ungulants, by the way. Just in case you were thinking hey, Deacon, not cool, those are people you're talking about. People tend to take me fairly literally. That's the price of honesty, you know.

On the regular now, she arrives in town, drops off some blood-soaked goodies and exchanges some wholesome murder-talk with KL-E0. Each time, he ends up at her shoulder. Just talking, to begin with. Then a light, chaste touch on the shoulder, progressing to fingertips on her elbow, then a hand on the small of her back. Now, of course, all bets are off. You do not want to know what I saw them doing in the alleyway the other week. I mean, I'd be scrubbing my eyeballs in Abraxo but my eyes are kinda my trade so I just have to deal with that imagery. For the rest of my life.

I read once that you can get the measure of a person by looking at the people who follow them. She's got an... interesting entourage, so far. On the one hand, Hancock. On the other, Valentine. On a third hand that I shall indicate by re-using the first one, her Brotherhood pal. What do we have? Brawn, brains, and... what exactly does Hancock bring to that party?

Oh. I answered my own question. The party itself. Hancock's speciality is avoiding reality, after all. I mean, I may not be his biggest fan, but the guy really knows how to cut loose. She's doing pretty well at that right now, because she rocked in through the gates a couple of days ago with a half-empty bottle of scotch in her hand. I hear she's been in the Glowing Sea, which is probably a less desirable holiday destination than Goodneighbor. City break versus rad-quatic adventure tour. I know which one I'd pick.

Right now I'm just hanging out in my usual corner. Hovering, like that vertibird. Hancock's having a party, so there are some interesting types turning up. Gotta love a bit of people-watching. Pretty sure that guy is from the Upper Stands of Diamond City, slumming it for an evening. And I hope that wasn't one of MacCready's old Gunner pals or he'll be in for a surprise.

So, yeah, anyway, about that vertibird. I wouldn't have thought much about it, I mean who doesn't have a vertibird or two these days? Except... the gate's crashing open like it's been kicked, and uh...

Oh.

This is interesting. And by 'interesting' I mean 'trouble'. 'Big trouble'. This guy fits the description of a guy who just flew into the Commonwealth aboard a giant metal zeppelin.

Beard, check. Scar on the face, check. Expression like a deathclaw licking piss off a mutfruit, multiple checks in that box. And the coat. Everyone who's ever seen him mentions the coat. At first I was skeptical, like come on guys, it's a coat, how impressive can it possibly be?

Very impressive, actually. Both practical and distinguishing. Too distinguishing. You don't want to be _the guy in the coat with the sleeve missing. Yeah, the yellow one. Oh, you mean the guy with the hat and the bullets? I think he's got a room at the Third Rail, want me to get you his schedule and favorite lunch menu?_

See? You know exactly who I'm talking about. It's just a bad idea.

But I suppose it's different for politicians and warmongers. Why would he not want everyone to know that he's Elder Maxson, of the Brotherhood of Steel. Just dropping by to see his pals in Goodneighbor. Probably heard about the quality of KL-E0's merchandise and come for a bit of window-shopping.

Yeah, no, I don't think so either. He's here for something else. And I suspect that something else might be the Brotherhood's newest recruit, who not thirty minutes ago made her way down into the Third Rail, on Hancock's arm.

But...

I'm sure he has plenty of guys and gals under his command who are capable of retrieving a misbehaving recruit from a place like Goodneighbor. I can think of one specific Paladin who would be my first choice. But here he is. The Elder himself. In the flesh.

You know what I think that means? I think she's pissed him off. Already. Which is pretty good going, considering how recently she took that vertibird ride to the balloon o' bigotry.

He's taken a few steps through the gate now, letting a couple of his tin can soldiers follow him in. He seems to be looking around for someone to shout at. All the other drifters have melted into the shadows, which is what usually happens in Goodneighbor when a door gets kicked in. Only folks left out here are Daisy, KL-E0, and me. Naturally, his eyes are drawn to my flawless good looks. Or maybe my general air of trustworthiness. He stalks over. Frowning. Means business.

"Have you seen this woman?" he asks. Waves a picture in my face. Old picture, pre-bombs. Her hair's different, but it's definitely her.

"Nah," I say.

"The vault-dweller," he says. "The General of the Minutemen?"

He knows about that, then. Wonder how that conversation played out. Does an Elder outrank a General? Is there dual citizenship? Who sits at the top of the table? That would be one hell of a dinner party, I want in.

"Nah," I say. "Never heard of it. Is that a bar? Sounds fancy."

I could keep this going for longer, and it might be useful to find out what else he knows about her, but Daisy leans over to look at the picture and rescues him. Noble soul, is our Daisy.

"She's in the Third Rail, honey," she says. "It's invitation only, though, so you best turn around and walk right back out that gate."

"I do not need an invitation," he says, still holding the picture. He treats her to the kind of sneer you'd expect from a bigoted asshole in charge of a battalion of the same.

Daisy laughs, a good rasping laugh that seems to annoy him.. "Oh," she says, "well bless your heart, it's right around that corner. Can't miss it. Play nice, though, you don't want to be getting blood all on that lovely coat of yours."

See? It really does grab your attention.

He goes on through Goodneighbor, walking tall. Well, not that tall. The Paladin's much taller. I'd probably be taller if I stood up straight once in a while, and now I'm thinking about what my mother always told me and that's weird.

I'm just gonna sidle along behind them. I'm still incognito, don't worry. The tin cans are clanking up a storm, and there's no way they can look over their shoulders with armor plates that big. More of a risk that she'll see me, and it's not time for that yet. She's not ready for us, we're not ready for her. I'm not entirely sure we ever will be, but that's a problem for another day.

Outside the Third Rail, I give them a minute before I poke my head round the door. Casual. Just leaning on the doorframe.

"Sorry, kid," says Ham, "you're not on the list. Buzz off."

Direct. To the point. Slightly condescending. Bound to work.

"I need to speak with someone," replies the Elder. "In there. And I'm not going to leave until I do."

"Yeah, well," says Ham, "without a golden ticket, you're gonna have to wait til they're partied out."

"Perhaps I'm not making myself clear," says the Elder. "I'm going in."

Ham reaches out a hand, touches the coat. It really is irresistible. Ordinarily, that would be a steadying hand. A don't-fuck-with-me hand. Your average drifter would... well, your average drifter would do about the same thing. Rip his arm away like he's just got a rad-burn. Your average drifter would also turn on Ham, hackles raised, fists clenched.

"Look," says Ham, unmoved by the attempted show of dominance. "Hancock don't like troublemakers. I don't like troublemakers. So why don't you just make this easier on everyone, and get lost."

That doesn't seem to be the Elder's style, because there he goes, boots thudding down the steps. His pet tin cans clank down after him. Ham spots me, and rolls his eyes. Cos what he knows, and what I know, is that at the bottom of those stairs is Fahrenheit.

I can't resist. I have to see this. I creep to the top of the stairs like a kid hoping for a bedtime story. I can't hear much, but if she's gonna say anything, it's gonna be real simple.

No.

When she says it? It's soft, and sweet, and in capital letters. And if you don't listen to it, it's significantly more likely to be the last word you ever hear.

But he's not met her before. He doesn't know that. So he goes to push past her, and for the sake of his dignity I hope he wasn't really trying because her shoulder-block totally knocks him off balance. He's got balls, though, because he's back eye-to-eye with her in a second, and probably still demanding she lets him through.

She turns her head, like she's listening to an instruction from inside. Hancock's the only one who can ever get her to stand down, and that's exactly what she's doing. She steps to one side, gestures the Elder in with a tiny motion of her head. She's not happy about it, lights a cigarette with a particularly vicious flick of her lighter before following him.

Hancock's gonna pay for that.

Wonder if anyone else will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: [Three](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5730103/chapters/13203835)  
> Previous chapter: [One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5834608/chapters/13446457)


	2. Six

The Brotherhood thing. Yeah, that's a problem. Theoretically, I could have stopped it before it even began, if it weren't for this whole non-intervention policy. I was there when first contact happened. Cambridge Police Station. Bunch of brave Brotherhood tin cans, an armory full of laser rifles, embarrassed by a nest of ferals that they couldn't work out how to deal with.

I could have distracted her. Hopped up on the roof, interfered with the radio signal, maybe even stopped her getting there in the first place. But that's not my job. My job is to watch. What she does when we're not watching - and by that I mean when she doesn't know we're watching, because obviously I am - is just as important as what she does when we are. Watching. When she knows that we're watching. Which she doesn't, yet.

Still with me?

She followed the signal. Showed up at the gates and hurled a couple of grenades. Accidentally ignited a truck's fusion core, boom. That's one way to clear out a bunch of ferals. She appeared to them, standing up on top of a bus, silhouetted in flame. Pistol in one hand, knife in the other. Pushed the hair out of her eyes, and casually kicked a clambering feral in the face. Finished it off with a cool bullet to the head. All with a background of smoke, flame, secondary explosions, groans, death rattles, et cetera, et cetera.

The assembled crowd fell into a reverent hush, only broken by the sound of cooling metal.

It was _awesome_.

I wouldn't have been surprised if the Paladin had scooped her off her feet and proposed marriage right then and there. I mean there's entrances and there's _entrances_ , and this was the second kind. He doesn't seem to think like that, though. I didn't hear everything he said, but it definitely included the words 'reckless' and 'careless'. Repeatedly.

I believe her exact reply was: "Fuck you, pay me."

Hey, she's a charmer.

She's also a gun-for-hire, and they needed a gun, so she did some merc stuff for them. All well and good until she got the invite onto the bulletproof balloon in the sky. And I got the uncomfortable feeling that I was watching our not-yet-recruit be stolen from under our noses. That would have been bad. Still might be.

The thing in Goodneighbor seemed to bring her back in the opposite direction. But then she went back to them. On-off, on-off, blowing hot and cold, as it were. Now she's on, she's going skull-bashing with her Paladin pal. Pal-adin. It's perfect, isn't it? Isn't it. Between them, they take down a Courser, or so I hear.

Then she brings him to Diamond City.

I mean, bringing any member of the Brotherhood of Intolerance into Diamond City? Why not go for the most obedient, most dedicated, most Brotherhood-y brother you can. Go big or go home. In one sense, Diamond City is exactly the right place for attitudes like his. On the other... well. You'll see.

Pay no mind to me, by the way. I'm an anonymous citizen eating a bowl of noodles. I've made this bowl last forty-seven minutes so far. Nobody is any the wiser. The Paladin is too busy trying to interrogate Takahashi to pay me any mind, and she's just kinda... antsy.

Hey, here comes Valentine. Probably not completely unrelated to Piper's kid sister skipping away along the trail of neon signs five minutes ago.

"How're you doing, partner?" he asks, in his inimitable way. Yeah, I imitate it all the time, but so would you, guy's got some serious class, come on.

The Paladin drags his attention away from Takahashi.

His jaw drops.

"This is a synth," he protests.

"Oh," she says, "really? I hadn't noticed."

"Look at his eyes," the Paladin is saying, absolutely deadpan. They don't pick recruits for their smarts, that's for sure.

But I get it. This is a test. She's watching him. Waiting to see what he does. And it's not really fair, because he's got to be off-balance. In an unfamiliar place, surrounded by people who don't know the Brotherhood well enough to know why they hate it, but they absolutely do. Almost as much as they hate ghouls. And synths, at least ones that aren't Valentine. Or... well, everything else. Diamond City folk ain't the happiest.

Nor is he, watching his pal be called 'partner' by a filthy synth.

"Danse," she says. "Don't be an asshole."

"It's a synth," he repeats.

" _He_ is my friend," she says.

"It should be broken down for scrap," says the Paladin.

"Cool it, kid," says Valentine, lighting a cigarette.

The Paladin, at least seven feet tall. Glorious in his Brotherhood regalia. Glaring, all dark eyes and darker eyebrows, because that's pretty much all you can see outside the armor. Raw strength and intolerance, personified. In a large metal suit.

She's more than a head shorter than him. Shorter than Valentine, too. But she steps in between the two of them with all the solidity of the great green wall.

"Stop it," she says.

He doesn't. He says something tedious about Brotherhood rules.

"This isn't the Prydwen," she says. "This is the Commonwealth. This is Diamond City. And this is my friend. So cut it out."

He thinks. It takes him a while. On the one hand, couple of well-aimed laser blasts and he fulfils his duty. On the other, the whole of Diamond City turning on him.

And her.

"I can't in good conscience watch you consort with synths," he says.

"So don't," she says. "Turn around. Go polish your armor, you don't have to see any of this."

He draws her away, turns so I can't see his face. Says something, something, synth. Something, something, Brotherhood.

She's holding a set of keys in the air. "You're a grown man, Danse. You don't need me babysitting you. I showed you my place. Here's the key."

Something, something, rendezvous.

"No," she says, hooking the keyring over a metal finger. "Personal matter. Deal with it. Now get out of here before I do something you'll regret."

I don't ever want to be on the receiving end of that look because if he turns tail and stomps away, it must be fucking terrifying.

"Hey," says Valentine, once the Paladin is out of earshot. "What's going on here?"

She looks him dead in the eyes. "I'm being an asshole to someone I trust and respect?"

"Yeah," he says. "You are."

"So I'm an asshole. Newsflash. But I've got the chip."

Another bloody bag of brains in her pack. Once is bad enough, but twice is starting to look like a hobby. A really weird hobby.

I know exactly who wants to look at this set, and that's totally not weird at all.

I gave her the reverse-pickpocket treatment a few weeks back, got her flyered up. Come to Boston Common, sample the educational delights of the Freedom Trail. She never showed up. In fairness, she probably knows more than any of us about the area, but I was pretty pissed all the same. That tourbot costume is hell on the joints.

I'm just kidding. I stood out in the cold for a few hours, then tracked her down in Goodneighbor. Of course. Where else? But she still had the note, and yes I did check, which is why I'm still around. Waiting for this moment, I guess. This exact moment. This crucial turning point in our relationship.

Breaking cover.

Deep breaths.

A few weeks ago, I'd have been excited. Shouting her entrance through the arches. Now? I'm dropping back into HQ but I'm holding back so none of them see me. As I get in, Drummer Boy's raising the alarm. There's someone coming, through the church. Who'd have thought it?

Dez curses, her head snapping round fast as she looks for Glory. The lights flicker a little; Drummer Boy's turned on the floodlights. Carrington curses and complains that he can't see his work, because clearly that's more important than a possible infiltration. Glory grinds her cigarette under her boot and hefts her minigun.

Out they go. I give them a moment. Several moments. Let them get the formalities out of the way. Work out what it is I'm going to say. I mean, I'm the one that's supposed to know everything, but I don't, and what I do know isn't all good. It's got me nervous enough that I'm not even sure what to say and that, my friends, is a very unusual sensation.

Her arm's in the air, shading her eyes from the floodlights. Valentine's at her shoulder. If you're going to turn up at the clubhouse of a society for the protection of synths there's not really a much better escort. So here I am vouching for her, 'she's kind of a big deal up there'. But even as I'm saying it I'm not sure what I mean. Is that a good thing? Is that really what we need?

But she needs something from us. So she'll give something to us. Herself. Her gun. She'll help us out to prove her worth, then we'll decode the chip for her. Merc stuff for the Brotherhood, merc stuff for us. Only fair.

So now suddenly she's my charge. Or I'm her charge. I call her boss, but you can't really be led by a person you don't trust. So I throw lies at her, just to see what she does with them. Not that I don't do that with everyone, but you know. She questions them for a little while. Now she just accepts them. Rolls with the punches. Doesn't make me feel much better.

Glory hasn't shot her in the head yet so I guess that means she's fine with her. Dez is convinced she's the next great hope for the Railroad. Carrington's still being an ass but I don't think he has another personality setting, so, you know.

Dez gives Tom the go-ahead. Decode the chip, Tom. Give her the info. She takes it, sticks it in her pocket. Picks up her pack.

"Where we going, boss?" I ask.

"I am going to the Glowing Sea," she says. "You are staying here."

"Come on, boss. You the only one that gets to go on rad-ventures?"

Yeah, it's my new favorite phrase. So sue me. I know a lawyer now, which is probably more than you do.

"Have you even been in there?" she asks. "It's fucking awful. Save the Rad-X."

She walks out.

A few days later, she walks back in. She has a pile of plans scrawled on the back of old printouts. Slaps them down on Tom's desk. They look like a kid drew them with his wrong hand but Tom seems pretty impressed, so I guess they're legit.

Everyone's either oblivious to or carefully ignoring the haunted look in her eyes. The shake of her hand as she lights up a cigarette.

"You ok, boss?" I ask.

She blinks and her expression says nothing again. She says yes. It's a lie. Doesn't take a liar to see it. Doesn't take a liar like me to see she's trying to convince herself, as well.

"You need me for this next bit?" she asks.

This next bit is teleportation, or something awesomely futuristic like that. I mean, I've read science fiction that was less out there, but Tom's got a plan, and she's got a lot of scrap metal just lying around.

"We'll get it done," says Dez. "You can trust us."

Yeah, Dez. Sure she can. But can we trust her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: [Seven](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5730103/chapters/13265662)  
> Previous chapter: [Five](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5834608/chapters/13520422)


	3. Ten

I'm just sitting around twiddling my thumbs when she shows back up in HQ.

"You're with me," she says. Well, ok then, boss, I guess I'll just drop everything.

Dez has seen her, though. Starts to ask her about the last mission.

"Not now," she says, abruptly. Rudely.

Wow. Okay.

As we walk out through the ruins, she explains, in very short sentences punctuated by cursing. We've got a package to collect. A big package. A package that stands over six feet tall, even without his armor. Hiding out somewhere in the Commonwealth.

"I don't know if we'll actually find him there," she says. "If he'll even be alive. I can't fucking believe this."

We get out of the city, making a fair pace. She pauses once, to take off her jacket and stow it in her pack. Rolls up her sleeves. No talking, only walking. Sweat soaking through her shirt. Through the more wilderness-y parts, she's smacking dead branches aside with her palm, collecting grazes all over her arms.

At least it's a clear day, so we've got good visibility of everything out here that's likely to want to kill us. For example, the pack of ferals lurking by that wrecked truck over there. We clear most of them out from a distance, but one starts running and covers the ground between us a little faster than either of us were expecting. She lifts her rifle. Shoots.

Misses.

Wow. She really is rattled.

It reaches her, gets her right in the face. If I shoot at it, I'll probably hit her, and I'm trying to grab an arm but gooey feral-skin isn't easy to get a grip on. But then there is a shot, it's lurching backwards and she's launching herself at it, both feet off the ground. She pins it down and starts mashing the stock of her rifle into its face. Keeps going, long after it stops moving.

"Take that, you fucking asshole," she's saying, "think I'll do your dirty work for you? I'll fucking kill you first."

Suddenly, she stops. Looks at the thing's crushed face. Stares at it for a few moments, breathing fast. Then she kinda collapses to the side, and lies on her back on the ground. She's covered in blood, and dust, and bits of feral. Her nose is bleeding, streaking a fresh trail of red down her cheek. Everything goes quiet. So quiet I can almost hear the drops of blood as they land.

"Hey," I say, "Are you ok?"

"No," she says.

"What's this about?" I ask. "I mean, really."

She stares up at the sky. Blue. Dotted with little fluffy clouds. Come on, sky, make an effort. We've got some serious shit going on down here. Give us something moody. Steely clouds, blotting out the sun, that would work.

They stay fluffy. A bird tweets.

"Danse is my friend," she says. "I look after my friends."

That would work so much better with an ominous roll of thunder, but no dice.

I help her up. She keeps a hold of my hand.

"Thanks, Deacon," she says.

I half want to push up my glasses. Really look at her. You know, transmit those _I've been where you are now_ vibes. It'd be a nice moment, except for all the blood and feral bits.

"So that's your secret," I say. "Feral blood face mask. You were never frozen at all, you've just been bathing in the juices of your fallen enemies."

She touches her hand to her cheek and blinks at the blood on it. Looks down at the patch of red spreading over her shirt.

"Shit," she says, cupping her hand over her nose. "I didn't even feel it."

Probably just realised that the taste in her mouth is part feral, judging by the way she leans forward and coughs. Spits a whole lot of blood onto the ground.

"Not gonna puke, are you?" I ask.

She shakes her head, pinches her nose and screws her eyes up tight. Couple of tears drip down her cheeks, adding to the mixture. I dig in my pack, find some old shirt for her to wipe her face. Wastelander camo, just add blood for extra authenticity.

"Maybe we should stop for a bit," I say.

"No," she says, her voice muffled by the shirt. "We need to keep going."

So we do, until we come to dirty little concrete bunker in the middle of nowhere. Could be a nice little holiday retreat, you know, all the defensive amenities, the quiet sense of despair. She knocks out the turrets. Unlocks the lift control, fingers flying over the keys, hacker-style.

"Wait here," she says. "I don't know how he's going to react."

Sounds like a good reason to keep your shooting partner with you, but never mind. She can handle herself. I don't really want to see it, anyway. The first encounter after the big reveal. This is the bit of the play that makes the audience gasp. You mean the kid we abandoned on a hillside was adopted by a goatherd and came back as an adult and fulfilled the prophecy we were trying to avoid? Bummer.

I've seen this production before, anyway.

"Sure thing, boss," I say. "If I hear explosions, I'm coming in."

"Noted," she says. "Give it a few minutes for the flames to die down, I wouldn't want you to get toasted too."

I settle myself in a chair. Scoot around the floor a bit, force of habit. Not helping my gravitas, much, so instead I settle myself against the wall outside the bunker. Sun's in my eyes, nice afternoon for a bit of emotional trauma. It also means I'm in the perfect position to see the vertibird descending, right as the lift starts rattling back up. One from the sky, one from underground. Kinda poetic, when you think about it.

The two of them come out of the lift. The Paladin still has a Pavlovian tilt to his head, vertibird equals good. But her eyes narrow. She squares her shoulders. Pretty terrifying sight, what with all the dried gunk on her shirt still. She drops her pack and rifle inside the door, comes out into the open. Chooses her position. Stands poised. Ready.

The Elder settles about six feet away, equally poised. Like a prize fighter. It's three against one, but he took down a deathclaw with his bare hands so he should be fine, right?

He starts talking. He's vitriolic, insistent, beating his fist in his hand like a true orator. Brotherhood dogma, perfectly spoken, perfectly rehearsed. Reminds her of her orders, and it sounds like she didn't exactly give me the whole story.

Then he tells her to stand aside, and that's about as successful as you might expect.

She steps forward, so she's standing directly between them, just like she did for Valentine not so long ago. Then, she was as tall as the wall. Now her head's scraping the clouds. She could reach out, pluck his balloon out of the air, crush it in her fist. Bury her fingers into the ground, scoop out the Institute, squeeze the life out of it.

But he's not afraid of her, surely. He's not afraid of anything. Deathclaws, bare hands, et cetera.

"You lose him, you lose me," she says.

That does the trick. It does the trick a little too easy. Maybe she is that important to the Brotherhood. They don't have any guys with the ability to shoot at stuff and make it dead. She's the only one. The king of the intolerant, no-negotiation assholes can totally make an exception for her. Toss all that dogma out of the window, for a single bloodstained mercenary, standing in front of him without armor, without a gun. Just her.

Oh.

Okay, _now_ I get it.

He strides off to the vertibird without a backwards glance, which is a good thing because if he did look back, he'd see the birds I'm waving at him. I can't help myself - if he's done what I think he's done then he really _is_ an asshole.

Off he flies, vertibird buzzing through the air like an angry metal stingwing.

Back on the ground, she starts talking to the Paladin. He's glancing over at me, nervous, so she pulls him away, far enough that I can't hear. Pay no mind to me, man, I'm just sitting here, leaning against the wall, letting the sun warm my face. I've got my own thinking to do, anyway. I've got to figure out how she managed to get all that past me. I mean, am I losing my touch, or what?

"Deacon."

I open my eyes, and she's standing there, alone.

"What's up, boss?"

She sits beside me, folding her legs under her. Lights a cigarette.

"I need you to get him somewhere safe. Really safe."

That sounds like she's not planning to come along.

"The Minutemen will have your backs," she continues. "Keep away from Sunshine Tidings, there's always Brotherhood assholes sniffing around there. But there are places. Starlight's probably fine, maybe Taffington."

"Sure thing," I say. "But you know your settlements better than I do."

"Deacon," she says. "You're smart. You've got the skills. You've got the connections."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," I say.

"It's not about me," she says, screwing up her eyes against the sun, and the smoke. "It's about him. Make him disappear. I don't even want to know where he is."

"You can't mean that," I say.

"I ruin everything," she says, flicking the half-smoked cigarette into the dirt. She bumps the back of her head against the bunker wall, curses under her breath. "It's just safer. I'd say I don't know who's watching me, but I know exactly who's watching me, and that's the problem."

"Aww," I say. "I thought we were starting to get along."

Side of her mouth twitches into something that might be a smile. "Just look after him," she says. "Get him a dog. Or a cat. Something that he doesn't have to talk to. Or that doesn't talk back. He'll like that."

She puts on her pack. Checks the rifle scope. I'm surprised she didn't damage it with her battering of the feral, but she seems happy enough with it, slinging it over her shoulder.

"Stay safe," I say.

"Absolutely," she says, "it's all fluffy blankets and margaritas from here on out."

That's not exactly what her face says. Her face says 'I'm tired and sad and I hate everything'.

The Paladin appears at the door of the bunker. Sees her kitted out for departure. Approaches her, cautiously. Hesitates a moment, then wraps his arms around her shoulders, above the pack. Holds her close. I don't know if he's judged this situation right, because she's kinda rigid, arms by her sides. He's muttering something into the top of her head. Then there's a sad little noise and I don't know which one of them made it, but her arms appear around his back.

Now, I'm not much of a hugger myself, but that looks like a good one. Nice moment. Okay, sky. Fluffy clouds are fine, keep up the good work.

She pulls away, face settled back in its usual expression. She's calm, and in control, but I can't help wondering what's going on in that mind of hers.

"Stay safe," she says. Then she turns and starts walking, without a backward glance.

So now it's just me and the Paladin, on the road together. I don't know where we're going. I don't know if we have enough supplies. The guy doesn't trust me further than he can throw me. But he trusts her, and for some reason she trusts me, so I guess that'll have to do.

Okay, Charmer. You don't know exactly why I'm doing this. I don't know if I'll ever even tell you that story. But I am.

I'm in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: [Eleven](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5730103/chapters/13338961)  
> Previous chapter: [Nine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5834608/chapters/13586173)


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